


Drinking and Knowing Things

by GreenPumpkin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, Crack Crossover, Crossover, Gen, Humor, Language, Tyrion using the palantír, and confusing Sauron, drunk Tyrion, just for fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 14:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16120598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenPumpkin/pseuds/GreenPumpkin
Summary: Maybe it was a drunk fantasy, or it happened for real, but a drunk Tyrion is certainly something that even Sauron cannot handle.





	Drinking and Knowing Things

** Drinking and Knowing Things **

****

Many thoughts of possible or impossible (or both at once) diplomatic mess as consequence of what Tyrion had just witnessed processed through his quicksilver mind as he slowly made his way back to his chamber on the ship. It wasn’t that he held anyone ill – after all, getting an heir was what Daenerys needed, getting a close ally was what she needed – but love had never got anyone really far as he knew from painful experience.

 

However, as he opened the door to his private room, it was not his private room awaiting him. For he had been in there, as knew for sure that no room on a ship would be out of white stone, with but a small table in there and a strange looking black stone on it. On one wall, there was indeed a wodden cupboard, and a window. This certainly was not his room. He closed his eyes, opened them again – still not his room. Had he drunk anything? He could not quite remember – in his experience, on this day, he had been as sober as never before. He took a step back – and felt that there were stairs close behind him. Stairs? On a ship? He turned around, and saw those strange stairs, leading down to a corridor out of the same white stone that he had seen in that strange tower chamber. Tyrion furrowed his brows.

 

“Might as well go in there. Maybe there is something to drink”, he murmured to himself.

He went back into the room, and took a closer look. Looking out of he window, to his utter astonishement, he could see plains, and mountains – and in between the ruins of a city. Looking directly down, he gathered that he himself was within a castle, or a city, built on several circles leading higher and higher. For a quick second, he closed and opened his eyes again. He certainly was no longer on this ship. He did not understand what had happened, but _something_ had. A quite big something. A something that had brought him to a strange stone place. As he looked towards the ruins, he could see some fire lights, movement – as if… it reminded him of the preparation for a siege. He hoped he would be away before such a siege happened – he did not really need another one of those.

 

He turned to the cupboard, opened it – and at last, a small mercy of the seven – something to drink, a lot of something to drink. He took one bottle out and opened it – such a welcome smell, something truly comforting. Taking a little sip (for he still wanted to examine things) he turned his attention to the small table with the dark stone on it. It was rather some dark marble ball, and yet there seemed to be something inside, or rather something shining from within. He took another sip as he took a closer look. It was as if a strange… being or presence suddenly had shaped, and yet not shaped. He furrowed his brows. Was he drunk after all? In that case, some more sips would certainly not hurt. After that, Tyrion placed the bottle carefully of the small table, and took the strange ball into his hands.

 

In that moment, it was as if some force had tied him to the stone, and he couldn’t force his gaze away from it. In the exact middle, fire and black seemed to appear, and a strange voice that he could not quite place was heard.

“Interesting,”, he said.

It seemed to Tyrion as if an eye out of flames would be forming itself within that stone. An eye that seemed confused. With one hand, Tyrion took another drink.

“Well… should I say hello? Am I drunk and you are finally one of those drunk images that my aunties warned be about?”, he giggled.

Another confused look out of the stone. A gaze as if the… thing would be searching for something inside of Tyrion (why did he get that feeling?), and yet… he did niot really feel scared.

 _“Who are you.”_ Finally, a voice. Finally. Well, if he was drunk and utterly out of mind, and this was all but something that his currently mad mind produced, he might as well play along.

“Tyrion Lannister. Killed some people. And I drink. And I know some bits and pieces.”

_“Then you should know me.”_

Under different circumstances, the voice would now be sounding quite terrifying. But now, Tyrion was simply amused, interested. And a little confused.

“My apology. I never made contact with the spirits of my drunkenness.”

Tyrion giggled again, wanted to have another sip from the bottle. However, it was empty.

_“That’s what the other man does, but not that frequently.”_

“The other man?”, Tyrion asked as he put the stone down in order to find a new bootle. With that task in mind, he did not notice that the ball rolled from the table and landed with a rather pronounced _KLONG!_ On the white stone floor.

 

_“Couldn’t you take care you dwarf!”_

“Apologies… again,” Tyrion murmured. This time, it was certainly harder to open this bottle.

“But I know who I am, so no need to call me dwarf, oh voice of my drunken mind.”

A shriek. Tyrion furrowed his eyebrows, and then laughed quietly.

“Someone is a little offended, right?”

_“No one offends me without receiving pain…”_

“But?” It was indeed strange – even though he was obviously now not holding the ball in his hands, not seeing the counter… person? He was ware of this voice in his head, a voice refusing to go away. That was indeed new. He had certainly never been that drunk, he guessed, it must be so – not even after he had killed his own faither… and this very thought seemed now to be exposed. _Why is that so?_

After completing the task of opening the new bottle and taking a long sip, he took the ball back into his hands.

_“You.. are…”_

“Am I what?”

Tyrion giggled. Obviously, this voice wanted to scare him, but could not quite do so.

_“I know you killed your father. I saw it.”_

“Saw it too. Even did it,” Tyrion replied sarcastically.

_“What do you do here. What power do you possess… do you have an army here in Minas Tirith that my everseeing eye cannot see?”_

“Well, a sound commander would not reply do that, would he,” Tyrion giggled. “But let me guess... two dragons, Dothraki, Unsullied… and well, me in a drunken state”

_“I cannot seem them!!! Why can’t I see them, show me!”_

“Why?”

_“I will kill…”_

Tyrion giggled again. He obviously was not on the ship, probably was rather in some drunk dream. He did certainly not understand. He thought of Daenerys, her dragons, the Unsullied, the Dothraki… and as he entered this line of thought, it was as if the eye inside the stone would become… frightened. And even more confused.

_“I cannot see them. WHERE ARE THEY?”_

“Also cannot see everything, you see me complaining?”

_“BUT I SEE AND I KNOW THINGS! EVERYTHING!”_

“Well, I drink… and I know things, and here we are,” laughed Tyrion.

The flames inside the stone were rising, and had Tyrion been sober, he would have been afraid of those flames burning his hands. Instead, the flames became brighter, higher, seemed to fill in his entire sight.

“Funny trick, I like that.”

_“This is no trick!”_

Tyrion laughed out loud, and then pushed out his tongue.

_“WHAT THE…?”_

“I think the word you are searching for is ‘Fuck’.”

 

He giggled, picked up the bottle and took no more notice of the black stone, nor of the voice that seemed to call him to come back or he would kill everything he loved as Tyrion went out of the room, towards the stairs. On those stairs, an older man appeared, clad in black, with icy grey eyes, and for a moment, Tyrion felt himself reminded of Tywin Lannister, at least in the… presence that this man commanded.

“Who are you,” asked the man. “And how did you come here?”

“Good question, not the first one to ask this”, Tyrion replied. “Is that strange ball in there truly speaking or am I just drunk? Because if it truly is speaking… Gods, I should never drink again.”

 

Whatever aim the old man might have had coming up that tower, he now took Tyrion with him down the stairs, then over a courtyard that seemed to have the shape of a ship (Tyrion giggled at that thought, making the guards standing their watch looking quite confused) towards a great hall. A very great hall. All in white, thus so different from the Red Keep that he had known… He drank more from his bottle, as he took in the sight in front of him. To his left and right, statues of what seemed like kinds were standing, looking down at him – and possibly as much real and alive as the voice from the stone that still ringed in his head. In front of him, he could see two big chairs – one in black without any ornaments at the foot of stairs leading up to a high throne. Two men were standing there – one old, clad in white (what was it with white in here?) and a younger one, possibly a soldier, clad in browns and greens, a young ginger boy or man, on his leather harnish a white tree was carved in. Those trees from the north? Finally, some sense and rational thoughts were coming back. No. Not the north. He was certainly not in the north. And this was maybe not a drunk dream.

 

“I found this man on the top of the tower of Ecthelion,” the first old man said. “Drinking from my wine, and… doing things there. Did he come with you, Mithrandir, and is he your spy?”

Tyrion giggled, and took another sip.

“I have never seen that man before, Denethor,” replied the white haired and white clothed man sincerely. “And he could be a dwarf.”

“I am ‘the’ dwarf of Casterly Rock, thank you,” Tyrion grumbled. “At least…”

Oh, now he was feeling nauseous. It certainly had not been normal wine. Did not taste like wine. Tyrion rand behind one of the statues, and puked. He wiped his hand sover his mouth, and then headed back.

“Apologies, dear friends – much to drink and then a strange voice inside a stone that I probably annoyed… Well, he or it sees and knows things, and I drink and know things…”

“The Palantír!”, exclaimed the white clad man.

“QUIET!”, the other old man called, apparently, Denethor.

“Father?”, asked the young ginger one.

Tyrion looked from Denethor to his apparent son, and grinned.

“Nice family relations… that really never gets old,” he remarked as Denethor shot an angry and possibly threatening glance to his son.

“Denethor, you must not use this tool! You are probably tortured through it by Sauron!”

“AH!”, Tyrion called, and giggled. “So that was what this… person was called. Funny chat, for my taste. Told him I had two dragons and an army here, he seemed impressed. And confused. And kind of angry when I ignored him and went away. This one does need some attention, right?”

“He… did not control you?”, asked the white clad man – clearly surprised.

“My sister once remarked you cannot control a drunk man… this’ possibly true.”

“Could you please tell us everything… and maybe start with your name,” suggested the younger man suddenly.

“As long as I don’t have to explain it,” Tyrion murmured. And he told them everything as far as he could, started with his name, found out their names – Gandalf, Denethor, and Faramir. He quickly realized it must seem to be a mad tale – of a _madman_ , possibly. But the fact that he had… resisted this thing in this… _palantír_ did seem to impress them. Also, they gave them a briefing of the situation where they found themselves in – something about a dark lord, about a lost city (those ruins?), something about a ring, and something about a dead older brother and heir.

 

“I heard once of… incidences, where people appeared and then disappeared again,” Gandalf remarked upon Tyrions story. “But never saw one. And I certainly understand even less of your… journey.”

“he is able to control the palantír. Better than I do. We could… use this.”

“Denethor, I think you know where I stand in using supernatural tools of power that we do not quite understand.”

“We are on the brink of a siege. Our concern should be with what is directly at our doorstep than with what is miles away in Mordor,” Faramir said. Tyrion smiled – he liked that pragmatism.

“There would be no siege if you had not given up Osgiliath!”, Denethor snapped.

Before Faramir could reply, Tyrion stepped in. And not only because he was in favour of this second son. Who reminded him in some ways of good Jon Snow.

“A siege is not the worst to happen right now. And I am quite good at sieges. And I can confuse this ‘dark lord’.”

“What do you need?”, came the instant reply from Gamdalf.

Tyrion grinned.

“More drinks. Something to write.”

 

They gave him everything. He seated himself at a table, received a plan of the city ( _this place is made to fall at a siege. Not practical!)_ and began to draw up his plan, made notes, discussed the amount of men that were available within the city, if there was any support. After a while, Tyrion felt another effect of the many drinks that he had had, thus asked for a place to relieve himself. As he went into a chamber where a whole went deep into the earth, he remembered the confusion of this eye of Sauron. He giggled. Truly something, that he, the ever not so worthy second son of Tywin Lannister and hand of Queen Daenerys, as it appeared had been able to outmatch a powerful dark being of this… well, other world.

Dressed again, he opened the door – and then found himself again on the ship. On deck, with the stars shining bright. He sighed.

“Fuck,” he uttered. Maybe he had indeed been so drunk that everything had been but an image that his mind had produced. After all, within that whole… adventure with this stone and the three men, he had never been worried if he would come back. Still, he was very amused by the fact that, in remembering a good friend, he had written the following words on one of the papers, without further explanation:

 

_Give me twenty good men and I’ll impregnate that bitch._

Bronn would have had the most glorious fun in this ‘Minas Tirith’ and with this ‘Sauron’. Maybe he would find a way back – but this time, rather after having dealt with any diplomatic mess and the mess coming ever closer – cold winter.

 

 


End file.
